


The Stories We Tell Ourselves

by EAU1636



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:40:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23723230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EAU1636/pseuds/EAU1636
Summary: Dorothea goes undercover to investigate a spate of suspicious suicides.
Relationships: Dorothea Frazil & Endeavour Morse
Comments: 20
Kudos: 27





	The Stories We Tell Ourselves

**Author's Note:**

> Writing this just for fun. Wanted to try my hand at something lighthearted with a tiny bit of plot and I've been wanting to write about Dorothea because she's my favorite. Imagining this takes place sometime during season 4.

Morse sits alone on a Friday night, hunched over the half finished crossword on the dark wood table in front of him, pen clicking in rhythm with his circling thoughts. Deaf to the lively chatter around him, he takes a long swig and finishes off the last dregs of his second pint of ale. 

Dorothea thanks the bartender for her scotch and a pint and walks over to Morse’s table. More than one head turns as she makes her way across the room. It isn’t just her curves that draw attention, but her confidence. Something in her assured walk says that she isn’t looking for the approval of anyone in the room, and so she earns it, effortlessly.

“Hello stranger,” she says with a smirk as she sets the pint down in front of Morse.

He looks up and smiles. He gives a nod to the chair across from him and she moves to sit. Morse’s face holds the worn look of the world weary. It worries her, someone so young shouldn’t look so ragged. The man is practically crying out for someone to care for him, but that’s far from her line. All she can offer is a bit of company and another round.

“How’ve you been?” She asks, “Haven't seen you around lately?”

“Oh you know, the never ending grind of the grim and sordid,” he says with more dejection than sarcasm, “All in a day’s...”

“You should suggest that tagline to the recruiting department,” she says with a twinkle in her eye, “You’re looking a bit done in. Burning the candle at both ends?”

“I think I’ll last the night,” he says with a bit more spirit, “What about you?”

“No obituary for the written word just yet,” she replies as she lights a cigarette, “Keeping busy. Can’t be all work and no play though. I’m meeting a date here in a few minutes.”

“Are you?” He says with mock surprise, his eyebrows raised, a grin playing at the corners of his mouth. 

“The usual weekend diversions,” she says wryly. She leans across the table and lowers her voice a bit. “Have you heard anything about this spate of suicides near Portishead? All young men, about your age. Fit, healthy, seemingly in the prime of life. Three of them now over the last couple of months. One of them was my friend’s cousin’s boy. Different methods, all of them, seems to be no connection, but I can’t help feeling there’s more to the story.”

“Can’t say that I have,” his eyes can’t hide a glimmer of interest, “ A bit off my beat. You suspect foul play?”

“One grows suspicious of everything in this line of work,” she says with a shrug and a sigh, “Probably nothing. Just piqued my interest. Thought I might try my hand at a bit of sleuthing.”

“People do despair, you know,” he says bitterly, “The prime of life isn’t always all it’s cracked up to be.”

“You don’t say,” her eyes hold sympathy, and just a bit of exasperation. The man really is the most melancholy person she’s ever met. “Sometimes I think life is hardest on the young, such hopes and ideals. It does get easier, you know, with time. One learns not to take it all so seriously.”

“Hmmmm...” he downs the last gulp of beer and seems anything but convinced.

“Well, I’ll leave you to your diversion,” he says as he rises from the table, “And I think you should leave the sleuthing to the police. No telling what you might get tangled up in.”

“I’m well able to look after myself, unlike some,” she says, giving him a pointed look, “You could use a bit of diversion yourself, you know. It doesn’t always have to be a love story for the ages. There’s such a thing as a bit of fun.”

“So I’ve been told,” he gives her a half grin, “Goodnight Miss Frazil.”

“Goodnight, Morse,” she says, reaching out to give his arm a squeeze.

As he makes his way across the pub, Morse passes by an attractive blonde with intelligent green eyes heading the other direction. He looks back over his shoulder to see her greet Dorothea with a warm hug and kiss on the cheek before joining her at the table. 

* * *

  
  


On Thursday evening Morse stops by Dorothea’s office. He finds her sitting at her desk, scotch and cigarette in hand as she sits editing. 

“Come in,” she motions for him to sit down and pours a glass of scotch for him and tops off her own.

“Thanks,” he says, taking a drink.

“I take it you aren’t just here for the pleasure of my company,” she says.

“No,” he admits, “I was hoping you could dig up any stories you ran on an incident three years back. The McGivern murder.”

“I remember it. Nasty bit of goods that wife was,” she says, “I should be able to lay my hands on it easily enough. Can I send it by tomorrow?”

“I’d appreciate it,” he says with a nod, “Thanks.”

He finishes off his scotch but doesn’t move to leave.

“Something else you wanted?” she asks with a sideways glance.

“I looked into those Portishead suicides a bit,” he replies, “Seems the police are quite satisfied that they are suicides. It happens. Are you still thinking of poking around?”

“Yes, actually, I’m thinking of heading there Friday night for a nice weekend away. The sea air will do me some good I expect, and if I should happen to make a few acquaintances and ask a few questions, what harm can that do?”

“The police have looked into it,” he says with finality, “If there was anything to find they would have found it.”

“ _They may see, but do they observe?"_ she says with a teasing grin. “What difference is it to you how I spend my weekend?”

“I just think it’s best to leave it to the professionals,” he answers stubbornly.

“It is my profession,” she sets her glass down on the table and looks at him with determination in her eyes, her voice a quiet reprimand. “Other people’s business is my business. Looking under stones that people would rather not have overturned is my life’s work, Morse, the same as yours. It may make me more enemies than friends, but I’m not about to stop because of that.”

He gives an acquiescing nod. “What is it you think is really going on?” he asks.

“I’m not sure, to be honest. My friend says there have been a lot of parties at some rich widow’s house, Woodside it’s called. A lot of wealthy ladies of a certain age in the area seem to attend with handsome young men on their arms. At least two of the men who died are known to have attended the parties. Mind you, there’s nothing illegal in an older woman looking for a good time with a younger man, misguided perhaps, as young men so often offer good looks and poor company, present company excluded of course,” she says with a wicked grin.

Morse grins back. “So you think what? That this wealthy widow is knocking off suitors and staging the killings as suicides? To what end? It all sounds a bit ridiculous.”

“ _Life is infinitely stranger_...” she says with a shrug, “I suppose it will all turn out to be nothing more than a harmless bit of debauchery and a flock of rumors. Still, I’m determined to have a look. My friend has managed to procure me with an invite to a party this Friday night. Not as myself of course, journalism doesn’t a rich woman make. I’ve had the fun of making up a persona for myself, Dorothea Reid. I have a feeling she’ll be devilishly depraved.” 

He shakes his head. “Not exactly Sherlock Holmes then. Aren’t you supposed to arrive decked out with a handsome young man on your arm?”

“Lobbying for the position, Watson?” she asks with eyebrows raised.

Morse laughs. “I hardly think I’m the cut out for the job.”

“I’ve been assured that if I do not have a boy toy one will be provided to me,” she says with relish, “I’ll be spoiled for choice apparently.”

Morse’s look grows serious again. “Don’t get so spoiled you forget why you’re there. Three men have died, suicide or not, look out for yourself.”

“I always do,” Dorothea says matter-of-factly, tipping her glass to him and then downing the rest of her scotch with a satisfied gulp.

**Author's Note:**

> Couple of Sherlock Holmes quotes thrown in for fun, though this is hardly going to be a Doyle level mystery, just a bit of fluff.  
> Dorothea's alter ego gets the last name Reid from the main character in Lady Chatterley's Lover. I would have given her the first name too, but it's Constance and I thought that would be weird since it's Morse's mother's name.
> 
> The phrase boy toy wasn't in use until 1982 but I'm taking the liberty of using it anyway.


End file.
